The petite performer winced as she pulled the brush through a difficult section of her jungle of hair; the nervousness of the evening added to the jerking movements. The room was cold, and a draft seemed to come in from some undisclosed place. Kristina Datsyuka suppressed a shiver. She leaned into the mirror; squinted to better examine herself in the gold glow from the one gas light at the far end of the room. With a small sigh, she forced back the debatably blonde strands that refused to remain in the up-do on which Lizaveta had worked so tediously. She tilted her head and moved in even closer to the reflection; either the lighting or the emerald gown she wore made appear her March blue eyes as green as sea foam, something which displeased her greatly. Everyone had brown or green eyes. Kristina was hardly content with being an "everyone". She was her own woman, and no one, she told herself often, could imagine she could liken to Kristina now. Kristina's right cheek slowly met with the coolness of the glass as her eyes shut on themselves. Her ear was pinned flat to the mirror, listening, waiting…

Three loud thuds pounded in her ears, sending crude vibrations throughout her skull. She jerked her head away and glared at the intruder behind the hard oak door. There was nothing for which to listen now.

With a brisk walk and rustling skirts, Kristina pulled down the gilded handle and heaved the door from its frame. At the sight of the trespasser behind it, Kristina bit her tongue and began to close the door again.

A strong, firm arm reacted quickly, locking the door in its open position. The dark, chiseled face of Alexei Valerian hooked the eyes of Kristina like a chain. Typically expressionless, Alexei spoke evenly through the inward strain of bitterness, "Are most of the women here greeting their relations in this manner now? I'm terribly behind on the times, as is expected of me."

Giving up on her hold on the handle, Kristina walked away from him and sat in front of the mirror again, with an air of defiance. "That's exactly why I wanted that door closed again, Alyosha."

In a few long strides, Alexei breeched the doorway and stood before his adoptive sister, the soft student's hands hiding hers on their rests. His pensive brown eyes below a sculpture's brows examined her from above, registering and analyzing her body language, assessing his competition. Having grown up alongside her since Kristina and her father came to live with his family when he was still learning to print, Alexei knew her through and through, and knew the signs of Kristina's moods. Nervous, clearly, he noted. But also perturbed and, what, wary, perchance? Anxious? He watched the little blue fireflies in her eyes dart about the walls of the room, as if searching for a spy on their meeting. He watched as her hands squirmed beneath his own, digging their heels into the wood of the armrests. The fleshy contact began to irk him and he thrust his hands into his pockets. "Krista," he began, taking off his hat and briefly examining its wear. "I implore a final time, Krista: do not perform tonight. Do not--"

"Aha!" Kristina jumped at the command, knocking Alexei off balance momentarily. "Aha!" She pointed accusingly as she encircled him. "It's always going to be about this, isn't it, Alexei? Never about Krista the person anymore, but only Krista the siren!" With this last self-accusation, Kristina turned to the wall-length mirror behind her and, forehead to the glass, screwed up her face in silent tears.

Alexei could stand the situation no longer. Empathy tried to knock itself out if its locked box, but instead a bitter hostility escaped. He whipped her away from the mirror by way of her shoulders and forcing her eyes to meet his, he spoke crisply and slowly, so that it would be impossible to misconstrue his meaning. "I do not want to see you on that stage at any time, Kristina Fomanva Datsyuka. I do not want to hear your voice from that stage, Kristina Fomanva Datsyuka. And I will be watching. Forever. Until you leave this place, Kristina, I will be watching. And the first time you set your foot on that stage, you will no longer have a home with the Valerians. I can make certain of that."

Kristina, back meeting tightly with the long mirror, tried desperately to hide the terrible thoughts her brother had just planted in her mind. Tear ducts welled with the thoughts of loosing her home with her sweet, feathery Mama Valeriána and her son that Kristina had quickly grown to love as if he were her natural sibling. The heart pounded against her chest with thoughts of leaving to find home on her own, with who knows what kind of people living in the flat above her. And how would she afford rent? What else would she have to resort to doing? A wave of yellow flashed before her eyes.

Kristina shoved away the thought, only for it to be replaced with a vison of Mama Valeriána lying terribly, deathly pale and withered in her yellowed old bed sheets and there stood Kristina, above her, craving to hold her hand as her voice faded. In her mind's eye, Kristina reached out toward the shriveled and blue-lined hand only to receive a spreading look of fear in Mama's sunken and watery eyes. She began to shrink more into her bed sheets, breathing unhealthily and making sounds that were her chords years younger and in semi-decent condition would have been ugly shrieks. Kristina retracted her hand and clasped it to her chest. Quivering herself, Kristina asked with panic, "Mama, Mama, what's wrong? Don't you want me here with you? Didn't you call for your little Krista?" And in her mind Mama answered only coldly, surely, "I don't know a little Krista, and I don't know you." And in a rush of emotions, Kristina searched for help, repeating, "Yes, yes, you must know me! You must remember me!" as she looked up to the doorway. And there was Alexei, arms folded, chocolate hair falling slightly over his face, quite content and leaning against the paint-worn frame. His expressionless face slowed and morphed into a pleased and wicked grin, and he laughed at her, "I told you that I would make certain. I told you, Krista."

Overwhelmed with her imagination, she refused to hide her fears any longer. Her eyes now open and focused on Alexei, whose exasperated and heated face contrasted the wicked smile in her dream. He turned from her, obviously disgusted, and began to walk away, until a pair of small, terrified hands clasped at the back of his thinning jacket. He paused, still with his back to her. "Alyosha," she forced. "Alyosha, I-- what do you mean, 'no home'?"

Alexei cocked his head so that Kristina was sideways in his vision. Resentment smoldered into anger behind the stoic brown eyes. His fingers gripped the weak hat in his right hand as he let her panicked face register in his mind. She was much prettier when she was angry with him, he noted. And he loathed it. His voice more of a growl than speech, Alexei explained himself in quick fervor: "I am kin of no opera wench! Doh svidanya." With that, he thrust on the balding felt hat and fled from her quarters, deliberately slamming the heavy door behind him.

At rather a trot, Alexei flew from the opera house as if its air were poison to his lungs. He even heaved and fumed as such until he was well beyond the grounds of the place. He did not realize it, but he was muttering the entire time he dodged the passers-by until reaching his bench at the end of the Nevsky Prospect by the Palace Square. Collalpsing with weary on the splintery wood, Alexei let drop his face into his palms. Too hot, he thought, moving to massage his temples. How stupid it all was, how useless! He scowled at himself. And if she had to, she'd take a yellow ticket for you, Alexei. She'd do it! Oh, God, I can't let her go so low. I won't! Not for your behalf, Alexei. No one will resort to such things on my behalf! She will not extort herself for me. I forbid it! Oh, God…what can I do?

Eager for distraction, Alexei sunk a hand into the nearby stack of papers and ripped out yesterday's issue of Era. He'd missed the issue yesterday, and had to catch up quickly. News happens fast, and every day the Era had another one of those fascinating scriptures in it. He whipped open the paper to the far back where the letters to the editor lived. Scanning the articles, he did not stop until he saw the phrase he searched for: Ph. of the O. Seeing the new letter from his favorite critic, a rush of exhilaration swept through the embittered Alexei as he dug in his pocket for the little notebook and lead he kept. Now set to record the letter, Alexei let himself read and absorb the content:

Angels sing tonight
Unless the chord of death sounds
No one hears her screams

-Ph. of the O.

"Ah," he mused aloud. "A death threat haiku. Genius man…" Copying down the message, Alexei pushed the paper away and searched the ransacked pile for today's Era. Having succeeded in locating it, Alexei repeated his ritual. Today's message from Ph. of the O. read:

Five thousand men away they sail today
To reach the land of their eternal hope
But lo! Their sails are tattered and give way.
For heaven these men should have never groped.

Ten thousand men come with their lady wives
For here they see who has the richest cup.
For in their souls a darkness will arise
And all their eyes will heavenward look up

For lo! What falls now from the sky above?
Five thousand stars upon their heads come down.
For in the breath of music, hate, and love
So all shall fall so she may be renowned.

Twenty thousand then of you I require
Or in this state you both shall make your pyre.

Give us the Angel,
-Ph. of the O.

Scribbling down the cipher word for word, Alexei hastily thrust the notebook back into his pocket and left his bench befuddled and amused. Retracing his trek up the Nevsky Prospect, he eyed the Palace Square and spat in disgust. Everything the tsar and his empire represented was a curse, surely! There is no freedom, Alexei thought. We are all serfs to you, Nikolai. And that is all we remain.

Alexei brushed against the door of his flat and tossed the poor excuses for a hat and jacket inside. He sat on the hard, thin sofa and, breathing in the grim and yellow air, squinted through the dim light at his handwritten copy of the notes. He tore out a clean page, attempting to analyze the poems piece by piece to understand his subject. He began to write his letter:

Regarding the letters from Ph. of the O.:

Your threats are hardly veiled. If you continue such obvious rants, whatever goal you desire to achieve shall indeed be nullified immediately. You are a very intelligent man, clearly, and had better put your mind to better use quickly. The authorities which should be rendered will strike out against you, and you will be found wanting. If I may advise you, Ph., refrain from such direct attacks and continue your force against the enemy with another who truly deserves your time. You know whom I mean, as mentioned before. Contact is simple, Ph. He waits. He knows.

-A. R. V.